Past to Present
by corneroffandom
Summary: Camacho's road to the WWE.


The Barrio. Hunico had lived here his whole life, barely surprised by anything he sees or hears about anymore. It's a rough place to live and he's definitely not the largest here but no one seems to want to touch him, uncomfortable by stories of his cunning and pure toughness.

He's wandering the very worst part of the Barrio, looking for something to do, when he hears a commotion nearby. He recognizes the sounds easily, his eyes lighting up. _Fight,_ he thinks gleefully, following the sounds of flesh striking flesh and loud curses, grunts and trash cans scattering around, until he finds it.

What he sees, however, sickens him and stops him in his tracks. Five guys around his age- fifteen- attacking a prone, defenseless kid who's curled up on the ground, cradling his skull and yelling out in broken, desperate mumblings every time they land strikes on him. Hunico gains control of himself after a few moments of blank staring, lunging out and putting himself in the middle of this five on one melee. "HEY!" he yells, gaining their attention.

The fight ends before it begins, really: Hunico's aforementioned reputation proceeds him and, after he lands one solid punch on the nearest teenager, the others run, allowing Hunico to grab the one he'd struck by the collar of his cheap shirt and sling him after them, amused as he struggles to regain his legs under him enough to follow his cowardly friends. Once he's sure they're gone, he turns to stare at the downed boy. "Hey," he says quietly, crouching down next to him. "Que pasa? Esta herido?"

Unfolding himself slowly, he blinks up at Hunico, shaking his head uncertainly. "Quien eres?"

"Hunico," he says, holding a hand out to help him stand. The hesitation that remains makes Hunico frown, though he doesn't blame the guy for being reluctant to trust after what'd just happened to him. "What's your name, amigo?"

He hesitates only a moment before mumbling "Camacho." There's a lengthy pause as they stare at each other, Hunico patiently waiting while the younger man tries to regain his bearings, awkwardly pushing himself up to a sitting stance. "Why?" he asks, surprising Hunico with his English.

"Why what?"

Looking almost relieved that using English wasn't another faux pas, he _finally _takes Hunico's hand and pulls himself to his feet, touching his bruised and bleeding face gingerly. "Why help me, vato? Won't that put a target on your back?"

Hunico just smirks, quickly scanning Camacho's face, his well-trained eye taking in each and every cut and bruise along his flesh. "Nah, amigo. They know better. In fact I'd say this here, my helping you, will be just the encouragement they need to leave you alone too."

"But... no offense, but why?"

"Let's just say I'm well known around these parts." His smirk grows when Camacho looks uncertain. "But don't worry, ese. I only go after those who deserve it. Now... what do you say we go get you cleaned up, huh?" The boy still looks uncomfortable but he realizes, after taking a quick look around, that, in the process of getting beat up, he's gotten lost. As Hunico walks off, Camacho slowly follows. "No one will bother you while you're with me. Like I said, they know better."

Even at his age, Camacho is a decent height, Hunico can't help but notice. He's thin, however, and despite the slight difference in their heights, Hunico has a sufficent amount more muscle tone. "I have an idea," he says once they arrive at his home, quickly ducking inside. Camacho waits outside anxiously, able to hear through the thin walls as Hunico yells, "Madre!" before speaking in rapid Spanish. There is no response and before long he ducks his head back out. "No one else is home, come in."

Camacho scratches at his arm before following Hunico inside, taking in the small house with simple furniture and very little else. Most houses in the barrio look like this, many residents unable to afford much or wary of _owning_ much should desperation come knocking on their doors and take it all away. "What are we doing here?"

"I said cleaning you up, si?" he asks, ducking into what must've been the bathroom. Camacho stands awkwardly in the kitchen, feeling stupid and looking uncomfortable as he runs his fingers through his short-cropped black hair. "Here," Hunico says, returning with both hands full of first aid supplies. "My mother is used to me fighting, though she tries to get me to stop. So we have plenty of this stuff laying around." He smiles, unashamed, as he scatters the bandages and alcohol along the surface of the aged table. "Sit."

Camacho still looks uncomfortable but he follows Hunico's command, settling anxiously in the chair pointed out to him. As Hunico sits on the next seat, grabbing him by the jaw and turning his face this way and that, he squirms under the other teenager's touch. "I can, I can fix myself up," he finally says, uncomfortable and embarrassed under the scrutiny.

Hunico shrugs. "Course you can, vato. But why bother when I'm here and can get it done easier?" Camacho falls silent after this, barely moving or grimacing even as his cuts are splashed liberally with the alcohol, wiped down immediately afterwards. "These aren't as bad as they first looked," he muses. "So what started all of this anyway?"

Camacho swallows, looking down. "I got turned around," he explains quietly. "Didn't know where I was until it was too late. Guess they smelled fresh blood. When one of them landed a pretty hard hit on me, I instinctively threw a punch of my own. That was all it took."

Hunico nods, not surprised by the story. It's usually the way that particular group handles their business, he'd seen it many times in the past. This, however, was the first time he'd gotten himself involved, his sense of justice and pride unable to let them gang up on the young man before him. He finishes cleaning up Camacho's face before stepping back to look him over. "Any other injuries?"

Camacho grimaces, looking down at his arm, and Hunico follows his gaze, surprised that he'd missed the decent sized scrape along his wrist that's still oozing blood.

"Ay," he mumbles, uncapping the alcohol once more. This _does_ make Camacho wince as the pink liquid drains down onto a towel Hunico is holding beneath it before quickly pressing a bandage around it. "How does that feel?"

"Better. Gracias." He watches as Hunico puts the things away, returning to the table with a solemn look on his face. "What?"

"I was just thinking." He gives Camacho a quick once over, smirking as the kid shifts uncomfortably. "Vato, what if I told you I could help you so you'd never have to worry about getting beat down again?"

Ordinarily Camacho would be skeptical of this but he had seen the way the five attacking him had responded to Hunico's mere presence, his intrigue showing immediately. "What do you have in mind?"

"Follow me." Hunico leads the way to the back of the house, glancing over his shoulder every few steps to make sure Camacho _is_ following him. They end up in the backyard, Camacho's eyes widening as he takes it all in. "Yeah, it's somethin', ain't it?" Hunico smirks as the taller teen steps out of the house, just gaping at it all. Surrounding the house are tires, long metal poles and many other pieces of general tools that are obviously set up for some purpose. "These are what I use to train with," he explains. "And the yard's just big enough for me to run. It helps."

Camacho still looks a little confused, his dark eyes glancing here and there. "Ok..."

Hunico laughs at him a bit before slapping him on the shoulder, picking up a tire nearby like it's nothing. "If you wanna make sure today never happens again, this'll probably be your best bet. Learn how to fight a bit, get strong, and no one 'round here'll mess with you." Camacho's about to say something but all attempts at communication die away as Hunico slings the tire at him with no warning.

He tries to catch it but it's too heavy and he quickly drops it, his hands stinging anew. He glowers over at Hunico, who looks even more amused. "What was that?"

"A test," the teenager shrugs, amused as Camacho looks unimpressed. "When you can grab that thing and carry it around this yard like it's nothing, then I know we're done here. But for now, we start small." He wanders over to one of the iron rods and lifts it, testing its weight before putting the handle of a bucket of sand through the end of the rod. A second bucket takes up the other end and Hunico brings it to Camacho, lips twitching. "For now, you use these like weights," he tells him. "If you drop 'em or spill 'em, you refill 'em. ¿Entiende?"

Camacho nods, taking it from him. Immediately he winces, surprised by just how heavy the buckets _are._ "Ay," he huffs, working to lift it. Despite how easy Hunico had made it seem, it's far from it, Camacho's hands trembling within the first few lifts.

Hunico says nothing, circling him calmly as he struggles to not drop the sand within the wavering buckets. It's obvious he's going to lose it and sure enough, within minutes, it's down, sand scattering across the hard dirt ground at their feet. Camacho looks annoyed and a little sweaty, quickly dropping down to scoop the sand back into the buckets.

This continues on for almost half an hour, the heavy heat from the sun overhead making even Hunico feel a little stifled as Camacho continues lifting the heavy buckets, pausing now and again to collect the sand that pours from the buckets when his arms give out. Before long, he's moved from only being able to do a few lifts at a time to doing ten before the buckets tip. Finally Hunico holds a hand up after the fifth go around, stopping Camacho from lifting after scooping the sand up once more. "That's enough, vato," he says warmly. "It's a good start. You keep at it and you'll get even better, stronger, faster." He slaps Camacho on the shoulder, grinning at him. "Those punks out there won't be able to touch you."

"Gracias," he pants, sweaty and tired. "I guess I'll have to look for things to lift around my place so I don't lose momentum."

Hunico simply laughs, shaking his head. "Nah, amigo, just come back 'round here every few days, I'll get you on the right path before you know it."

Camacho looks a little uncertain about this but finally nods, "Si. Sounds good." He holds his hand out, like they're making a pact here, and Hunico figures maybe they are, just a little. Neither men realize that, upon shaking the other's hand, their lives would be interlaced from that point on.

"Yo, Camacho!" the now-28 old year hears as he answers his phone, smiling to find that it's Hunico on the other end.

"Hunico," he greets his long-term friend. "Been awhile, man. What's up?" From those rocky days in the barrio, they had decided to try to make it big, never have to endure that kind of lifestyle again. Lucha libre wrestling- while perfectly fine for Hunico- had never worked with Camacho, his body type too large, wrestling style based on strength instead of speed and highflying abilities, and he was barely making ends meet, desperate to get started in America, where his size and style might be more accepted.

"Got the call, holmes. I'm in."

He pulls the phone back to stare at it, eyes widening. "WWE? You're not joking?"

"Nope." Camacho can hear the grin in his friend's face and it makes him smile too. "But that's not all," he continues after a moment of just reveling in the moment. "I told 'em about you and they're interested for somethin' in the future. They wanna fly you in to Florida, check you out." There's a lengthy pause as Hunico waits for his friend to say or do anything. "Camacho, man, you there?" Underneath his laughing tone, he also sounds worried.

Camacho shakes himself out of this funk and says quietly, "Are you serious? They want me?"

"'Course they want you! Told 'em we're a package deal... I've got your back, holmes. Always have, always will. Check your email, should be sending you some information shortly."

He pauses, moving over to the laptop at a nearby table. It's a cafe with wifi internet and, as much as he usually dislikes these places, they're pretty convenient, especially when he's traveling from one gig to another, trying to make a name for himself. "Uno momento," he says, already annoyed with how slow the Internet is going, due to how many people are around using it. He logs in and scrolls through the usual junk mail, trying not to get distracted by the numerous ridiculous subject lines to some of these. "I think I have it," he mumbles, clicking on an email from headquarters .

The silence drags on for so long that finally Hunico says anxiously, "Well, amigo? What do they say?"

"I'm being flown in this weekend for a tryout to FCW," he responds breathlessly. "Hunico..."

"That's bueno, vato! We'll be able to travel together and room together and I won't have to deal with these other _chasco. _I can't wait to see you," he continues on, finally catching on that the silence from Camacho's side isn't normal, even for him. "Camacho? You alright? Didn't faint on me or nothing, did you?" He'd always been the talkative of the two, the larger man sometimes unable to get a word in edgewise, but there's something about this that doesn't sit right with Hunico.

"What if I mess up?" he finally says, sounding forlorn and awkward. "I don't wanna let you down, or ruin this opportunity, but things ain't going so well, holmes. WWE is so..." His words fail him, unable to figure out how best to describe the large business known far and wide, kids growing up watching it and getting _their _kids into it for decades.

"I understand," Hunico says with the same kind of care that he'd shown when they were teens and Camacho was struggling to pass by unharrassed, if not accepted, in the barrio and its surrounding areas. "But I'll be there to help you through, so don't worry. It'll be great, amigo. Trust me."

He doesn't even have to think twice. "You know I do, Hunico. Tell me what to expect."

He's off the next morning on the next flight to Florida, even manages to get some sleep on the flight. His eyes light up when he finally catches sight of his friend waiting for him, a large grin on his face. It's obvious even by first glance that Florida's been good for him, less tension in his shoulders and a more confidence to his walk. Camacho is glad to see it; living in the barrio isn't easy on anyone. "Hey," he says, returning the one-armed hug Hunico offers him before taking his duffel, slinging it over his shoulder.

"C'mon, let's go. I wanna show you around a bit before the event tonight!"

"Event tonight?" Camacho tries, and fails, at remembering any event. "I dunno, vato... Think that flight killed whatever brain cells I had left. What event?"

"FCW tonight!" Hunico says. "I'm gonna compete and you're gonna get to see me in action." He pauses, examining his friend mostly to judge his reaction for what he has yet to tell him. "See, they wanna try you out and if they like what they see, they're gonna bring you up to be my tag partner. But for now, I'm going up and you know what I'm gonna do?"

He shrugs, taking in the Florida scenery for the first time before turning back to his friend. "What?"

"I'm gonna go pay our little friend _Mistico _a visit." The sneer on his face is somewhere between intriguing and dangerous. Lucha libre is very competitive, and somewhat a small market... everyone knows or knows _of_ everyone else, and what they _do_ know, they tend to hate. Sometimes Camacho is glad that he was too large to be a lucha libre, just the thought of having to compete against Hunico leaves him uncomfortable. So he's not completely surprised that Hunico is going after the man who had no problem changing his name and running off to America at first opportunity, can't help but wonder if that was the main reason _why_ Hunico accepted WWE's offer when they showed interest in him.

One thing Camacho didn't foresee was that Hunico's idea of paying him a visit would be to mimic his new persona, down to the color of his clothes. Sin Cara constantly wearing a mask, no one knows what he looks like and, while he is still healing from injuries sustained at Money in the Bank, Hunico easily slips into the role, barely an eye blinked at his sudden appearance. As for himself, upon his trying out, the WWE higher ups in attendance apparently like what they see because Camacho receives a letter a couple days after Hunico leaves with this new idea in mind and he spends weeks in Florida, growing accustomed to the American style of competition while watching as, week in and week out, "Sin Cara" continues on with his thing. It's so ridiculously obvious that it's not Sin Cara, every match just bleeding _Hunico_ to him, but no one else in the WWE seems to notice and he wisely keeps his mouth shut, not wanting to get Hunico into trouble.

But trouble comes anyway when, after Hunico allowed his real self to shine through, the real Sin Cara returns and starts targetting Hunico- who begins going as Sin Cara Negro, finally getting him in a mask vs mask match- one of the most important match types in Lucha libre history. Camacho watches uncomfortably as, of course, Sin Cara Azul defeats Sin Cara Negro and unmasks him, Hunico leaving the ring in disgrace.

"You alright, hermano?" Camacho asks when they talk on the phone that night.

He's so angry he's spitting out almost every word. "I'm fine," he snarls. "But I'm done with this Sin Cara crap, I will prove I'm better than him... Camacho, I want your honest opinion on something..."

"Si, what?"

"How long until you think you'll be ready for television?" He can _hear_ the calculating smile in his friend's voice.

It takes a couple of months, Camacho not feeling confident enough in himself to be any good to Hunico or, well, anyone just yet, wanting a little more time to work on his abilities in the ring, but in December Hunico insists on coming to see him before another international tour. He thinks his friend plans on convincing him to come with him overseas, and as much as he looks forward to finally being able to tour with him full-time, he just doesn't think he's ready. And when Hunico arrives and they drive to the FCW arena, Hunico going on about what countries the tour is going to, all of the different cities, Camacho simply tells him what's on his mind.

Hunico smiles a little bit, shaking his head. "You overthink things, amigo. Always have. Eh it's not that I want you to rush yourself before you're ready to be on the road all the time, I don't expect you to immediately be adapted to the American style. I know you've only been here a few months. I just want my friend by my side, ¿entiende? It would probably be good for you too, instead of being stuck in Florida around all those strange gringos all the time." Camacho is still visibly hesitating, his eyes wide underneath his ever present sunglasses, and Hunico sighs. "You would only do what you've always done and have my back. When you're ready, we'll tag team or you can wrestle singles, whatever you want to do. Hell, let's do both. But I got you this opportunity with WWE so you'd be by my side, not down practicing with the rookies for the rest of your life, y'know?"

"I know." He stares out at the arena as they approach it and swallows. "How about we talk again after the show?" It had been so long since Hunico could actually just be at a FCW show that he would almost be surprised if Hunico could remember _how_ Camacho wrestles.

"Alright." He stops the car and turns to peer at his friend. "Knock 'em dead, vato."

He's not sure if it's because Hunico is nearby and his presence always encourages him, or if things are just finally clicking into place for him, but that night goes _really_ well. He doesn't screw moves up, chains actually make sense as he goes for each counter, and he only loses the upperhand a couple of times. When he covers his opponent- some try out kid he'd never heard of before tonight- and gets the three count, Hunico is by his side within seconds, applauding and holding his arm up in victory. "What do you think now?" he calls out to him over the jeers, smirking as his childhood friend revels in the victory.

Camacho's dark eyes peer around at the audience, who seem to enjoy booing him and Hunico, and it amuses him. He considers how it'd be to get a reaction like this on a much larger scale at a live event or televised taping... and realizes he _wants_ it. He really, really wants to travel with Hunico, get better, have more victories like this, and celebrate each moment with his best friend. "I think you'd better start booking two plane tickets," he tells him with a grin, whatever doubts remaining quickly fading away when Hunico's whole face morphs into a wicked smirk as he slaps him on the shoulder.

"Si! Finally," he grouses, roughly pulling Camacho over to him. "I thought you'd never agree."

"I just didn't want to embarrass you," he finally admits, almost hoping that the crowd is too loud for Hunico to hear the soft admission. He can tell by the look on his friend's face, however, that he's not that lucky.

"You never could, Vato." He slaps him on the arm, face softening slightly. "We won't push this, you take it at your own speed. I'm fine with you learning as you go. I just feel better with you having my back."

Camacho nods. "I always will, Hunico. You know that."

Hunico nods back. "Damn straight I do, amigo. Now, let's get out of this dump and start planning on what we're gonna do to take WWE over."

As they leave, Hunico pausing to yell back at some obnoxious guys in the crowd, he smirks, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring down at them. The group, noticing him, quickly lose interest and disperse, Hunico smirking over his shoulder at him. "See, this is one of the reasons why I wanted you to come along."

He grins back and follows him out of the arena. It had been an abrupt decision, sure, but he's glad to finally be moving on from FCW. Self-doubts or not, Hunico wants him to come along for the rest of his WWE career, and that's more than enough reason for Camacho.


End file.
